“Here We Are, You and Me, on the Last Page.”

I knew that one day I would be writing this. Every good story has an end, does it not? I’ve told Sir that I intend to -one day- publish a novel about us, about this… journey, this large part of my life. I crack jokes all the time about how I could do E.L. James one better, but I have yet to put my money where my mouth is. I tell him too that the only way my book would be a commercial success is if I wrote in a sappy, happy, kinky ending for Sir and Fatal.

Real life does not always have happy endings, but if I could write one for Sir and Fatal it would go a little something like this:

 

Afters years of dancing around one another, after intimate moments and heartbreaking confessions, after tears and bruises and promises kept and unmade and hollow words and pained smiles, after misunderstandings and miscommunications, after finally learning to read one another and to speak with one another, openly, honestly, permissively, after the great sex and the clarity, and the real emotions, after all the talks and the sappy movies and struggle snuggles, Fatal and Sir buy a house somewhere lovely, close to a large city, but far enough away not to be bothered, somewhere that Sir can feel the grass between his toes and Fatal can bike down to the shore to hear the waves any night she pleases.

They outfit their bedroom with hooks and restraints and Sir’s favorite spanking chair. They hang their favorite implements in places of honor and they shop for sheets together. They both work, they both have hobbies, they both have friends. Inside of their house, their nest, Fatal wears her collar, always. She cooks dinner and keeps the house and wears retro pinup clothing and defers to Daddy about everything. It is her kinky 50s dream in living color.

They take baths in the large, clawfooted bath tub, and they cuddle to watch black and white movies on an overstuffed couch. She drinks wine and occasionally dips a finger in his scotch, just to taste.  He reads to her and she sings to him. They play hide and go seek and they see operas and ballets and shows together. They attend nerdy conventions together and get excited about the latest technology on the market. She has a clothing addiction and they both collect figurines and other trinkets. They travel together, whenever they can. They make inappropriate jokes to one another, they share secret smiles and have codewords for annoying situations. He tolerates her love of snow and she understands his need of warmth.

He thinks she drives like a mad woman. She thinks he worries too much. They bicker occasionally. They make up with sweet kisses and hot sex. She reads his tarot cards and he acts like it isn’t malarkey. She sits in his lap while he plays video games. He writes and she paints. They sleep on the beach in the sand. They nurse each other back to health when they are sick. She cries on his shoulder, and he collapses in her arms. There are back rubs and shoulder rubs and foot rubs. She shaves his face for him. He brushes her hair. He kisses her tattoos, she hugs him from behind. They hold hands. They slow dance in an empty room on a silent night.

They grow old together.
They have no regrets.

 

And with that… I have said all I will ever need to say.

And so, long time readers, new readers, dear and treasured friends…from the last page… good bye. For now.

xoxo
Fatal

You’re the Fire and the Flood (I’ll Always Feel You in my Blood)

Spread me beneath you
I am soft
I am pliant
I can feel the truth in your fingertips
Your touch speaks volumes
writing and rewriting
what a strange story this is

Kiss me please,
let me feel your hunger pangs

Does it burn within you
the way it scorches me?
I can feel your lust
on the sharp edge
of your teeth

I feel your heart hammering
pounding against my chest
I can taste your need on your tongue
you’ve made me such a mess

love me to pieces
chip away at everything I am
burn me to ashes
and rebuild me again

Please, hurt me
please, wound me
But only if you kiss away my tears

Master, Daddy,
Manipulator of my fears

I’m as Shallow as you are Deep

Imagine for a moment

I am not me.
You are not you.
We are not us.
This is not what this is.

I just want you to imagine it.
I’d love to know your thoughts on it.
I’d never ask.
I don’t really want to know.
That’s just something I said.

But just imagine.

Maybe only one of those things is true. Maybe more.
What do you envision?
What do you see?
Is anything different?
Or is it all just the same?

Even in parallel universes, faraway worlds, lands that time forgot

Are we destined to be this?
Are we destined to be us?
Are you always you?
Am I forever me?

Imagine we’re not.
What could it be?
What could it have been?
What was it almost?

What ripple did the most damage?
What stone changed everything?

If I had done this.
If you had said that.
If we had been… more. than. us.

Just imagine.

You’re the Secret That I Desire, I Can’t Keep That to Myself

She blinked in and out of consciousness; the lights were bright, too bright, when her eyes opened, but the dark scared her. Still… she drifted. Once, when she half-woke, he and the doctor were standing over her prone body, discussing her recovery process. The conversation floated in and out of her ears, with snippets of words here or there, words like “weak” and “dangerous” and “caution;” Words that served to do little more than frighten her back into the blackness of unconsciousness. Once, she thought she felt his hand against her cheek, though it might have been a dream.

When she was well enough to leave the hospital, she spent six weeks on pseudo-bedrest, flitting between the bed, the sofa, physical therapy appointments, and long, steamy baths that left her feeling better each time she stepped out of them. He was attentive and concerned, but quiet, and she hoped he wasn’t having second thoughts about the operation. He washed her hair during her baths, and escorted her to physical therapy. He cooked her meals for her, and snuggled close, but not too close or hard, to her in the evenings. They watched television shows together, though nothing too funny, or she would laugh and upset the stitches. He read her to sleep some nights, and others, she would drift quickly in the early evenings and be out until well past dawn the next day. Time passed, quick and slow and all at once. Continue reading

If You Were Mine, I Would Live For Your Love Alone, To Kneel at Your Shrine, I Would Give Up All That I Own

A Sinner Sits for Sacred Sunday Service
Singing the liturgical tones of
sexual ardor
I move
to your taciturn tendencies,
exercises in silence;
a sojourn in discipline;
momentary lapse of reality–
how many times
will you make my eyes speak to you?
breathless,
I whisper across the fire,
begging pour le deluge.
tes yeux de glace
precipitate desire,
but
my
eyes
are only for you–
waiting to again make the
carnal sounds of coitus:
a litany of pumping hips
the chorus of animal sounds
guttural,
primal,
as I lick the sweat from the hollow of your
throat.